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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603922">Sokol</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plz2daysatan/pseuds/Plz2daysatan'>Plz2daysatan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, First part is all angst., M/M, POV Multiple, Probably too much talk about sharks, Reconciliation, Religious Imagery &amp; Symbolism, Secret Marriage, Swearing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:23:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,172</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plz2daysatan/pseuds/Plz2daysatan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“NO! TATER,” Jack yells! It’s too late. His unintentional suicide pass is complete.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexei "Tater" Mashkov/Kent "Parse" Parson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I watched a youtube video on suicide passes and my brain went WHAT IF AND MAKE IT WORSE. So I did.  Suspend your disbelief. This is  for the drama.  I did minimal research.  I’m practicing my multiple POV writing and trying to make your heart go OH NO!  </p><p>The first part is all angst. Comfort and reconciliation come second.</p><p>Please let me know if tags need updating. </p><p>Sokol: Russian to English means Falcon.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zimmboni flicks the puck around the corner, Alexei tracks it, anticipates the puck landing between his right skate and the boards, he cants his body toward the crowd behind the crease, leans hard into his left edges, looks away from the incoming Schooner's defenseman. He is aware that this is dangerous and stupid.  He has to be quick. Simultaneous control, lookup, change directions. No pause. </p><p>He feels the impact of the puck on his stick. </p><p>A flash of white.</p><p>Pain so powerful it blinds him. </p><p>Weightlessness.   </p><p>Then a silence so deep he hears the last zip of his brain synapse. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;</p><p>“NO! TATER,” Jack yells! It’s too late. His unintentional suicide pass is complete. </p><p>Jack watches in mute horror as Ivanov drives his shoulder into Tater’s unsuspecting face.  Time slows; syrupy and thick. Tater falls heavy and lifeless to the ice, his long arms posture stiff before flopping out wide, a crucifixion on ice. </p><p>Jack’s stomach plummets out his bottom half as time picks up.  His brain starts cataloging details faster than the speed of light. Thirdy slams Ivanov against the boards, but they’re too close to Tater’s helpless form. Their fight draws the stampede closer and closer. Someone rams a stick into Tater's helmet knocking it askew. A Schooner slams his skate into the back of Tater’s head. Tater’s body slides towards the net as someone braces their skates on Tater's chest to push into the fray. The two-person fight turns into a bench-brawl before Jack can unglue his feet. Bodies trample over a forgotten teammate.</p><p>“Jesus. Shit. Fuck.”  Jack rushes in to help, but he’s too slow. The ice turns to wet cement as he fights his way to protect Tater’s limp body. Jack can see it coming before it happens. Tater’s chin has been rammed down towards his right shoulder, exposing the soft flesh of his neck. The last few Schooners sprint down the ice. There is no time to stop the wayward snick of a skate blade across the soft side of Tater’s throat.  The arc of blood is so vibrant against the glare of the ice. It would be a compelling photograph. <i>Title: Forgotten. </i></p><p>Jack yells for anyone to pay attention. The crowd picks it up. It’s not the collective hive-mind-battle-screams of a good brawl but the helpless panicked screams of people caught in a fire with no exit.</p><p>Jack dives in without gloves and claps his bare hands over the spray of bright red blood.  It doesn’t help staunch the flow. Blood oozes through his fingers, hot and thick.  It melts the ice beneath Tater; fanning out to ring his peaceful face like an ominous halo. Tater doesn’t move.</p><p>“Oh. Fucking. Fuck. Tater!” </p><p>Jack’s body shakes. His vision narrows to where his hands press on Tater’s neck. The brawl quiets, the stadium stills. It’s just Jack and Tater and 20,000 people so silent a man in the nosebleeds can recite Jack’s whispered prayers. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;</p><p>The Ace’s are in Boston.  Kent is restless with the need for the game to be over. He’s so close and yet so far from Alexei that it’s almost painful, but he’s willing to endure it for a hug and a quickie. A man can hope anyway. The clock is ticking down, two minutes left, and Kent is on the ice for the final push.  Boston’s empty-net doesn’t make a difference.  The Aces win 2-1.  Kent rushes down the tunnel, bouncing on the tips of his skates.  He’s half-naked before he reaches his stall; the faster he showers, the faster media can be done, the faster he can leave and get his hands on Alexei.  </p><p>Kent instantly thinks of baseball instead of Alexei’s hands roaming his body; open bay showers are not the place for heated fantasies. Also, locker room showers are gross. Kent hums Alexei’s current musical fixation as he waits for the water to heat up. It’s some awful country song turned to rap. Alexei only finds it funny because he hates it when people touch his truck.  The paint is custom! They will scratch it! Kent snorts. He still loves the man, regardless of Alexei’s poor music choices. </p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;</p><p>Blood is in the water. Jeff can’t smell it, he can’t see it, but he knows.  Tonight, the group of reporters looks like a shiver of sharks, circling an unsuspecting swimmer.  It appears the lone, inner-tube clad swimmer in deep water is, unsurprisingly, Parse.  The big, bald, Boston bastard (honestly, it’s his nickname league-wide) has a menacing glint in his eye.  The whole crowd knows something, but he is going to be the loudest.  </p><p>Jeff wonders what misadventure Parse got himself into now.  Drunk dancing in another fountain? No. The tension isn’t humorous. It’s threatening. A poorly worded Instagram post? Maybe. Parse isn’t the best with his words and his Instagram can lean decidedly not family-friendly. It is Vegas.  A small bit of fear creeps in when Jeff thinks about the sheer number of explicit photos stored on Kent’s phone. Jeff is well-aware that long-distance is difficult, but how many dick pics do one couple need? </p><p>Jeff looks for Parse in the crowd of the locker-room.  He’s in his stall, fixing his hair. Kent catches Jeff’s eye and smiles, wide and true. Jeff knows Kent has a date with Alexei tonight; his happiness makes Jeff feel painfully single.  The sharks jostle towards Parse and Jeff sends him a <i>watch yourself </i> nod.  No one deserves to be eaten alive. Kent shrugs and turns his smile into a shield. </p><p>Jeff watches from across the room.  A woman gets the first question, it’s a softball.  Kent gives the quintessential hockey answer.  Jeff can almost read his lips. </p><p>The big, bald, Boston bastard's voice booms through the locker room next.  Jeff, seriously, hates that dude. </p><p>“Mr. Parson. Care to weigh in, as a captain, on the targeted hit against Mashkov tonight?” </p><p>Jeff watches as Kent narrows his eyes in skepticism. He can hear a trap better than anyone.  Jeff is three seconds ahead. He whips his phone out to google the replay. </p><p>“No. I can’t weigh in until I’ve seen it,” Parse responds deadpan. </p><p>“I have the video," the Boston bastard says, handing his phone over with a self-satisfied grin. </p><p>Jeff winces as he watches the hit. He can see a few other teammates doing the same.  And then Jeff realizes the blood in the water isn’t going to be from Parse. It has already been spilled. Jeff moves before his video is over, but he's not fast enough.  There’s a ripple effect through the locker room. Teammates drop into their stalls with their hands over their mouths, staring down at the worst-case scenario. Eyes start to silently flick towards Parse; no one is fast enough to knock the incoming phone away.</p><p>The color leeches out of Parse's face, the flush of the game that sat high in cheeks gone in a moment. Parse looks up with wide and colorless eyes.  Jeff is thrown ten years into the past, a much younger Parse with the same fearful expression, mourning the potential death of his favorite person. It’s not a look Jeff ever wanted to see on his rookie’s face again.  Jeff pushes through the reporters, pulls Parse's face into his broad chest, and uses his body to hide Parse like a cage. Parse is shaking all over, but his arms wrap around Jeff’s middle and squeeze tight.</p><p>The loud snap of a camera is the final straw. </p><p>“Get. The. Fuck. Out,” Bings says, as he rests his overly large hand on the lens of the nearest camera and blocks the view of a few others with his broad chest. </p><p>Miffy steps in front of the rest, crosses his arms over his chest, and levels his best death glare at the Boston bastard, "now,” he says with murder in his eyes.  </p><p>Bings and Miffy remain shields at Jeff's back, further protecting Parse from curious eyes. Scrapy digs through Parse’s bag and emerges from the depths with his phone. He pries Parse's fist open to use his thumb to unlock the phone without protest. Thousands of notifications bubble up from every social media app and messaging system. The screen goes black and pops up with the name Sokol. Scraps answers and places the phone against Parse's available ear.   </p><p>“Kent? It’s Georgia Martin,” Kent lets out an audible sob. Jeff squeezes him harder, bracing for the worst.</p><p>“Please,” Parse begs, raw and guttural. It tears a hole right through Jeff's heart, “please! Tell me he’s alive.”</p><p>The locker room is perfectly still as everyone waits on the tinny voice to answer. </p><p>“He’s at Roger Williams. Alive. Critical. In surgery," Georgia cuts directly to the chase. </p><p>Jeff moves his arms to support Parse as his body sags in relief. </p><p>“I’m expecting you. I have his phone.  Call when you’re close.” She hangs up. </p><p>“He’s alive, Parse,” Jeff whispers and drops a soft kiss to the top of Parse’s bowed head, “He’s alive.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The hospital after the hit.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm not super happy with this part.  I'm not sure I like the initial tense I wrote this in and I suck at them to begin with so this is just a hot hot mess.  I Grammarly checked this but nothing else.  Mistakes are my own and what not.  Thanks for reading! </p>
<p>I also decided to split this chapter!  Last chapter still to come!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The blood takes a long time to scrape off the ice. Jack takes even longer to scrub it off his hands. It’s deep under his nails and feels permanently ground into the lines of hands.  He drops more soap into his hand and scrubs harder until a small and slender hand eases his raw ones out of the water. Jack closes his eyes and breathes through the near-constant replay as Bitty squeezes his shaking hands.</p>
<p>“He’s going to be ok, honey. Even I’m prayin’ something fierce," Bits says, cradling Jack’s raw hands against his chest so he can feel the steady beat of Bitty’s heart. </p>
<p>“Yeah. Ok. He’s going to be ok," Jack repeats. </p>
<p>Jack can’t remember if he saw the ice again. One minute he was frantically rubbing the skin off his hands and now he is staring at the bland wall art of a too-small waiting room that’s stuffed with too many large bodies that all need a shower. Bitty holds his hand, both their knuckles white as they press into Jack’s thigh trying to still the bounce.  The door at the far end of the hallway clangs open and it’s like a poorly written TV show; everyone stops in their tracks, holds their breath, and waits for the grim-faced doctor to walk out and break their hearts. </p>
<p>But standing in the doorway isn’t good news, it’s not the doctor or George. Instead, it’s Jack’s least favorite D-man, Jeff fucking Troy arms laden with overnight bags.  The room lets out a collective sigh, but the tension doesn’t ease.</p>
<p>Jeff pauses, eyes heavy with purple bags, face an ill shade of white like he’s been staring death in the face. It makes Jack want to punch the worry right off his face. Jeff looks him square in the eyes and must sense the anger radiating off Jack, he looks around at the mass of agitated Falconers, shrugs his shoulders, and retreats like he was just a figment of Jack’s imagination.   </p>
<p>Jack looks at Bitty who is already on his phone looking for injuries on the Aces or any logical reason Troy would be a million miles from his desert oasis. He shows Jack the screen; no report of injuries, just a blip about the Ace’s win over Boston and a sharp-toothed photo of Kent.  The cold trickle of realization rolls down Jack’s spine as takes in the irony of his situation.  He looks around at his teammates, stares at Bitty, and for the first time in ten years, he realizes how alone Kent must have been, how heavy the burden of death must have felt when Jack left him to sit in a similar waiting room. </p>
<p>The door clangs open again, pulling Jack from an anxiety-spiral, to reveal Georgia Martin.  Jack squeezes Bitty hand for dear life as the bitter scent of fear seeps through the small room. She stops in front of them and takes a minute to look each disheveled teammate in the eye. </p>
<p>“Tater made it through surgery. He is expected to make a full recovery.”</p>
<p>“Thank fuck,” Snowy says with a loud sigh of relief.</p>
<p>“Can we see him, cheer him up, hold his hands?” Poots asks.</p>
<p>“No, Poots.  He’s asleep. Besides, it’s family only for now.” </p>
<p>Georgia glances back through doors like she’s expecting Tater’s estranged family from Russia to waltz through them and turn back to the team when nothing happens.</p>
<p>“You all need to go home. Kiss your spouses. Snuggle your pets.  Thank your gods. Shower. Morning skate has been canceled, but tape is mandatory,” she ends it with a double clap to get everyone moving. </p>
<p>Jack kisses the top of Bitty’s head in relief and waits for a few of his teammates to trickle out before approaching Georgia. </p>
<p>“George?” Jack is not sure how to say this without sounding like an asshole, “Tater doesn’t have a family? Will the hospital let me drop some things off? Not tonight. Tomorrow?” Jack also needs to see Tater with his own two eyes to prove that the blood under his nails isn’t the last bit of Tater he has left. </p>
<p>George arches one immaculate eyebrow at Jack and drills a hole into his brain with her incredulous stare like she’s expecting to find an answer to her unasked question. She glances at Bitty like he might blurt out a response and then looks back at Jack. </p>
<p>“Huh?” She says when she’s found it, “There’s no need, Jack.  Just go home and get some rest. Tater has his phone. He’ll reach out when he’s ready.  You did good work tonight,” she pats his shoulder and then squeezes it as she moves to make sure everyone has left.</p>
<p>&lt;&lt;&lt;</p>
<p>Jeff scurries back through the double doors and away from certain bodily harm.  If looks could kill, Jeff would be dead.  He takes the long way to Mashkov’s room and spots George in the hallway. </p>
<p>“I think Zimmermann is plotting my murder,” he says in greeting.</p>
<p>“Tonight of all nights, it wouldn’t surprise me," Georgia nods towards the door,  "Mashkov's not awake yet. The doctors said tomorrow.  Kent has my number if he needs anything.”</p>
<p>"Thanks, Georgia,” Jeff says and watches her walk away towards her team.  Hopefully, no one sneaks back here.  Jeff will protect Parse with his life, but he’d rather do it on the ice. </p>
<p>Jeff quietly pushes the door open and notices Kent hasn't moved in the hour he's been gone.  Kent's stationed on the side of the bed clutching Mashkov's motionless hand between both of his smaller ones. Jeff sets the bags down at the end of Mashkov’s bed and tentatively moves into Kent’s eye line. Kent’s eyes are glassy and distant and Jeff aches for the ability to take Kent’s pain on as his own and to set himself as the shield between Kent and the world.  It’s been cruel to Kent for too long. He settles on resting a hand on Kent's shoulder. </p>
<p>“I just avoided the biggest throwdown of my life,” Jeff whispers. </p>
<p>“Yeah?” Kent asks, eyes never wavering from the steady rise and fall of the broad chest in front of him. </p>
<p>“Parse.  The whole god damn roster is itching to punch some lights out.  They’ll probably be around all night just promise you won’t leave the room without someone with you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Parse repeats, glancing towards Jeff and then back to Mashkov. It’s probably the most he’s moved since he got to the room. </p>
<p>“Hey, kid. He’s going to be fine. Docs said he’ll be awake by morning, yeah? I'll sneak you in some breakfast. Try to get some sleep.”</p>
<p>Jeff brings Kent into a quick hug and kisses the top of his head. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Parse says into Jeff’s chest. Jeff lets go and leaves and hopes Parse gets some sleep if only to lose the haunted look in his eye. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>&lt;&lt;&lt;</p>
<p>Alexei’s body is still under the thin hospital blanket.  He’s a big guy, always taking up space with his physical size and boisterous personality. Kent loves how he talks with hands, his wild gestures putting everyone around him in danger of catching a stray hand to the face. </p>
<p>He loves Alexei’s thunderous laugh that he can hear across a crowded room like a homing beacon. Alexei is always in motion. Even in sleep, he’s not motionless, his eyes dart behind his lids as he dreams and sleep-talks about ducks and Santa, and his limbs always find a way to worm around Kent and draw him closer. </p>
<p>Alexei is big and loud and bubbles with joy, he's never still.  It's painful to watch the rise and fall of Alexei’s chest in case it stops.  Kent wants to make sure that whatever hockey gods are out there don't decide to take back what they nearly had tonight.  Kent chokes back a small sob. He squeezes Alexei’s large calloused hand in hopes that he’ll squeeze back or pull Kent down into the crook of his neck.  </p>
<p>But Alexei doesn’t do anything except breath long and steady. Kent can hear words wash over him from a distant voice, someone hugs him quick and presses a soft kiss to his hair.  A door clicks shut. Kent doesn’t blink, he can’t, he never wants to lose sight of the man he loves again.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>“Ugghh,” someone rumbles from above Kent.  A hand smashes into his face waking him up. He blinks to find himself face first in Alexei’s armpit. Gross. </p>
<p>“Ow!” Kent grunts as he removes the hand and sits up to see Alexei's honey brown eyes staring at him with fond confusion written into the lines of his tired face. </p>
<p>“Kenny?” Alexei whispers as he pats Kent's thigh absently.  Relief sweeps through Kent, powerful as heavy rain. Alexei hums happily and then winces, his smile drops, and his hands pull away from Kent towards his neck. </p>
<p>“Don’t!” Kents says as he gathers Alexei’s hands back into his lap holding on tight. Alexei squeezes back and blinks heavily before nodding back off, eyes darting back and forth as he falls right back into a dream. </p>
<p>Kent doesn’t know what to do except cry, big ugly tears that make his shoulders shake and snot run down his face.  He lets the feeling wash over him until he's exhausted enough to sleep.  He takes big gulping breaths as he adjusts Alexei’s sleep-slack limbs to settle himself in the crook of Alexei’s shoulder, throws his leg over Alexei’s hip, he squirms until he's comfortable.  Alexei smells stale and sweaty but Kent can't find the will the care as he pulls the chain holding Alexei's ring out from under the hospital gown.  The ring is body warm and almost soft. Kent zips it along the chain like he does on the nights he can't sleep at home.  It grounds him in this unfamiliar time.  With his sobs finally under control, Kent sets the ring on Alexei's chest and covers it with his hand and nuzzles gently at Alexei's neck.  It’s easier to drift off to sleep when Kent can feel Alexei’s fingers twitch against his back.</p>
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